Ex Tenebris, Luc
by Seinaru Kibou no Tenshi
Summary: My neverending series about Gambit and Rogue's far too cute son, Luc! (I've rearranged so that they're in chronological order) :)
1. Confiteor

The Eighth Color of the Rainbow 

Confiteor

* * *

  
Touching each carefully, Remy LeBeau counted out each of the baby's ten, tiny fingers and toes. The skin was velvety, soft to the touch, with a lingering residue of sweet-smelling powder. Just having been bathed and thus alert, the boy good-humouredly laughed and snatched at the digit that was prodding it, enjoying the impromptu game. The actual exploits of the cinq petits cochons who va'd a la marche and who mange'd du rosbif were meaningless to him, words flowing over him like a lullaby, but trying to catch the finger was infinitely entertaining. When the last petit cochon had departed for the safety of home, he smilingly bent over the crib, picking the tiny creature up as delicately as he would have a Ming vase, and handed it to its grandfather.  
  
Warily, Jean-Luc and the tiny scrap of infanthood regarded each other. Too-huge, red-on-black eyes held an ineffable look of smugness and superiority, like a contented, sunbathing cat, while a tiny fist clutched possessively at the white blanket in which the baby was swaddled. Decorated with hand-embroidered ducklings, it had belonged to his uncle before her, although the pristine condition of the cloth gave no indication of its age. Tante Mattie would have had it no other way.  
  
"Luc not be made of china, pere."  
  
He looked up to meet the same amused and profoundly disquieting eyes. His son was grinning at him, managing to look teasing and peacock-proud at the same time. It was a look common to new parents everywhere, as they understood that their son or daughter was a miracle, magic made flesh, a chance in a million. In Remy's case, it had been a chance in a billion. Nervously, because it had been a while since he had held a child, he ventured to stroke the downy head, tracing the tiny white stripe between the dark fluff that betrayed his parentage.  
  
"Got de worst o' both worlds, non?"  
  
Despite Remy's flippant words, he could see his son's concern and shared it. Jean-Luc remembered all too well the Council's reaction to him adopting - what had they called the boy? - 'hell-spawn'. The description had stuck, as the actual words mutated into epithets such as 'Le Diable Blanc' and 'L' Enfant Fichu.' His son had never seemed to care, but the perpetual fights in which he had been involved with both thief and assassin alike had made a lie of his nonchalance. There had been a stage in his life, where, if a part of his body was not bruised, it had been scratched.  
  
"Or de best."  
  
Like the other ruby-eyed, nappied bundle that he had seen that fils du putain Antiquary toting everywhere, like a chow puppy, twenty-four years ago. Jean-Luc leBeau had not known Remy's true parents; had not wanted to known the people from which he was kidnapping a baby; had not wished to imagine the sad-eyed mother or the angry, powerless father. The child,  
despite his obvious mutancy, had been well cared for by his family in an age where it was seen as a curse among the more superstitious and a debilitating disease among the more scientific.  
  
"Blame her mother," Remy laughed, "Did m'best t'keep up de family traditions o' being a bete noir."  
  
Jean-Luc forced a sickly smile. He had taken his son away from his family twice now, both times to preserve the peace. First as an infant when the branch of the clan controlled by the Antiquary - the Velvet Ministry - had become too powerful to pacify with anything more than direct capitulation to their wishes and foibles, and then as a man when Julien had been killed.  
That considered, he could not understand his son's loyalty to and love for him, after all he had done to him. Although his son had privately ranted tohim about his wife's unquestioning trust in 'ca femme' - by which periphrasis, he gathered that he meant Mystique - he seemed unable to realise that he was as guilty of devotion to the unworthy as she was.  
  
"Where is Rogue?"  
  
Remy's second marriage had not surprised him, although he was secretly slightly saddened that the hope of reconciliation between the Guilds provided by a union with Belladonna was impossible. His son had always had a penchant for strong woman - cute pun, Jean-Luc - and Rogue's stubbornness was as legendary among the family as her ability to lift tons. Motherhood  
had done nothing to soften her, had been as efficacious in that respect as wifehood had. Mattie had won that particular bet.  
  
"She's sleepin' in de next room. Luc was . . . reluctant t'go t'sleep an' terrorists not be as used t'nightlong hauls as t'ieves are."  
  
Lest he forget that his son's wife had been trained by Mystique, he thought, and was the equal in skill of any assassin, including their Queen! He knew Raven Darkholme only by reputation, and did not wish to improve on that acquaintance. The woman was renowned for being a remorseless, merciless professional, who put her unholy cause above all else. Still, he mused,  
Rogue served as evidence that there was another gentler side to her, that there had been maternal instincts buried beneath those of the hardened fighter. She would not have adopted the girl if that were not the case, nor could Rogue's fierce loyalty to her be explained in any other manner. He admired that loyal part of her character, considered it finer than any of  
her more illegal repetoire of skills. Despite her often prickly demeanour, his daughter-in-law was completely devoted to both Remy and Luc.  
  
"Ya be happy wit' her, mon fils?" the words were half-question, half-statement.

The man mock-defensively held up the hand on which he wore her ring, as if to stall him. In the light, Jean-Luc could see that words were scored into the otherwise plain, golden band, although he could not read them.  
  
"Oui," he replied simply, and the lack of pain or doubt in his accompanying smile filled in the gaps where speech was silent. He had found a home with her where his adoptive father had been ultimately unable to provide a permanent one, despite thinking he had managed to make amends for his earlier crime.  
  
Jean-Luc had tried everything to rid himself of his guilt, of course, even going so far as to attend confessional at the Church of Lost Thieves. After admitting the length of time since his last one, he had sat in silence in the confessional box, hands folded within layers of green velvet, breathing in the musty, sweet fragrance of smoke and cedar that surrounded him like a  
benediction. 

In his contemplation, he had begun to murmur the familiar words of the Confiteor- the penetential prayer in which the sinner confessed his deeds and his culpability for them. The old Latin had rolled over him, rich and rare, calling on every power for assistance and redemption. Mary, whose beauty was that of a morning star, could surely cleanse him with one look from her tender, broken-hearted eyes, or St Paul, the great apostle and mighty soldier of the Christ, could intercede in his stead? Or Peter, the rock on which the church was founded? God was too high and too perfect to conceive of sin, Jesus too infinitely merciful to approach without shame, but the grieving, lovely mother of Jesus, the apostle who denied his master three times and the blinded, former Pharisee would understand. They knew too well what it was like to be reviled, to be called unclean, to doubt their purpose. The words had trailed into a vague amen, as he had realised that he could not continue. How could he confess to having committed a sin that was unforgivable, even by his standards? Knowing that he had gone beyond redemption, he had pushed the slide open, not hearing the priest's call to continue, and left the cool, incense-scented church for the reality of the street.  
  
"Pere?" he realised that he had been lost in thought, holding his grandson almost absently. Remy looked concerned, reaching to take the baby from him. Half-reluctantly, Jean-Luc released the scrap of humanity who was named after him. There was something comforting about Luc, something that made him feel that he was not irredeemable. Knowing himself to be safe, the child stretched and yawned, revealing perfect, teethless gums. His son's expression softened instantly into its previous adoring, new father cast.  
  
"I love dem both more dan I t'ought possible, y'know," Remy continued, "I . . . I survived losin' Belladonna t'rough sheer stubborness, t'rough lettin' m'job become m'life, but I never could wit' Rogue an' Luc. If dey were taken from me . . . ."  
  
He grimaced, rearranging the swaddling cloth in which Luc was hidden and replacing the bundle in the crib. As a final thought, he set the mobile of smooth, glass pieces moving, setting specks of multicolored light to darting and flashing around the room. Judging by the contented, deep breathing that emanated a few seconds later, it was unneccessary - the baby had fallen asleep without the help of Mattie's home-made toy. Jean-Luc came to stand next to his own son at the edge of the infant's bed, resting a hand on the carved side. A profound sense of deja vu came over him as he watched Luc sleep, secure that his parents would protect him from all harm, that he would always be safe, warm and well-fed. It was the same look his adopted son had worn, sleeping in his bassinet on the night that he had been taken to satisfy the whim of a depraved monster, to end a Intraguild war in which he had had no part.  
  
"Remy," his voice caught, "I need t'tell ya somet'ing important."  
  
"Oui?" he sounded confused, "Quoi?"  
  
Knowing that it could cost him the love of his son, but understanding that the truth would set him free from the endless guilt and shame, Jean-Luc began his private confessional.

* * *

EPILOGUE

* * *

Baby held in her arms, Rogue regarded Jean-Luc with a strange mixture of sympathy and distaste in her glorious, green eyes as she sunk into the leather armchair on the other side of the desk. Although the standard sycophants that surrounded anyone in power had announced her, she suspected her grand entrance would have been slightly more effective had Luc not been  
trying to get purchase on her braid. Nonetheless, she suspected even a full MGM chorus would have probably been wasted on her father-in-law at the time. The Guild leader looked more weary than she had seen him before, cheeks stubbled, dark rings shadowing decidedly puffy eyes, ridiculously thin. An untouched meal cooled and congealed next to a half-empty carafe of wine, while the ashes of a fire smouldered in the grate. Sympathy subsumed distaste as she saw the vulpine man's pitiful state, and the naked, horrible hope in his eyes as he saw her.  
  
"Is m'son . . . ?"  
  
Remy was unaware that she had flown to New Orleans to see his estranged father, believing her to have taken Luc to visit Raven at one of her many apartments. He had opted out of the excursion, naturally. Her mother and husband were as incompatible as fire and kerosene - they tended to spend their time together making pointed, subtle comments that just avoided being rude. Although she secretly suspected both of them enjoyed their verbal battle, she knew that Remy was hardly in the mood for sparring with Mystique, after having heard what Jean-Luc had done when he was a baby.  
  
"Ah'm sorry, suh."  
  
"He'll forgive you, you know," she said softly, "It'll take time, but he will."  
  
Jean-Luc shook his head, "Non, I committed de unforgivable sin when I stole Remy, cherie."  
  
Smiling, "Fortunately, mah husband's had loads o' practice in forgivin' the unforgivable. Ah left him ta die, didn' Ah, and he *married* me?"  
  
Although her tone was light, the memory was not. Even after two years of marriage to him, she still carried it with her - a slight chill when she saw the snow, a pause outside the court with its statue of blind Justice, a hesitancy when speaking of Antarctica in even the most general sense.  
  
"Would ya if I stole Luc in order t'keep peace in de Guild?"  
  
Her grip on the infant tightening almost instinctively, she rested her head on the top of his velvety one. The tiny, pale streak was softer than the chestnut down, and smelt pleasantly of baby shampoo. Luc's tiny hand snaked out of his blanket to stroke her cheek - to her shame, she still pulled away slightly out of habit - and she kissed his palm. He laughed and grabbed her plait, tugging it. Despite his propensity for snatching at everything and anything, she loved him with an intensity that surprised her. (Raven would have said it was unhealthy, but she knew that her adoptive mother had cared for Irene and herself in a way that made a lie of her words.) She would hate anyone who took him from her for any reason, would hunt them down and quite forcibly show them the error of their ways.  
  
"Ah'm not Remy, suh. He can forgive what Ah never could," she paused, extricating her braid from Luc's grip before he put it in his mouth, "After all, family is th' most important thing ta him an' you, to all intents an' purposes, are his." She held up a hand to forestall the predictable objection, "You may have taken him from his family, suh, but you gave him  
your one in its place and that is more important by far."  
  


* * *

FIN  


* * *

  
Disclaimer: Characters are Marvel's, except for Luc who is far cuter than any child has a right to be. I know my brother was never this cute, and I doubt any other laddie is, although they're certainly as noisy. Comments to: brucepat@iafrica.com Thanks to my beta-reader for all her comments and assistance in helping this poor S'Effrican speak Yank. ;) 


	2. The Cherry Cookie Incident

The Eighth Color of the Rainbow 

The Cherry Cookie Incident

* * *

Luc was in the process of exploring what he considered to be an intriguing patch of mud. Dark, viscous, it sucked at his ankles as he waded through it, a profoundly satisfying 'gloop' marking each sticky step. Supervillains, he thought, always had deadly swamps and forests in front of their homes to trap and mislead the unwary hero. Unfortunately for Killer Croc, he had notbanked on encountering Luc LeBeau, Jungle Tracker Extraordinaire. (Luc was not sure what extraordinaire meant, although he had heard his father use it often in connection with his cooking skills.)  
  
Looking down at his white shirt and denim shorts in disgust, he knew that he needed to camouflage himself if he were to have any chance of getting near the criminal's lair without being seen. He grinned, rolling in the mud with more gusto than was strictly necessary. Almost satisfied with the effect, as a final thought, he smeared grime in his russet hair and sprinkled a few dried leaves on top for good measure. Feeling for his now muddy plastic knife and putting it between his teeth, he crawled on his hand and knees to behind a handy tree where he sat watching the base.  
  
Although it seemed like a perfectly ordinary, white-painted house with blue gables and a lush, immaculate garden, he knew that that was deceptive. A clever façade that had fooled all the inhabitants of the mansion's grounds. The residence was obviously the home of the insane Killer Croc who even Batman had had difficulty defeating. Luc, however, had no such plans. He wished to avoid a confrontation with the psychopath, if at all possible, while stopping the reptile's plan to make Luc's family and their friends his slaves. All it would take was disposing of the evil, mind-control cookies that were cooling on the outside table. Cookies, to which he was fortunately immune.  
  
Plucking up his courage and removing his 'weapon' from his teeth, Luc charged.  


* * *

Weeding the beds in a shady corner of their yard, Ororo suddenly became aware of a kid-shaped mudball sprinting across a corner of the lawn, shedding its protective dirt and leaves as it did so. Fervently hoping that  
it was not Ainet and fully prepared to deliver a stern lecture if it turned out to be her daughter, she strode purposefully, regally, in the general direction of where the child was running.  
  
She was too late, she thought in horror, as she saw the series of muddy footprints on her formerly pristine steps and the grubby hand marks that were in place of her cherry cookies. Another print on the wall indicated  
that the culprit had vaulted over it into her dahlias, as did the crushed state of the flowers. Solicitously, she created a small shower above them in order to try and revive them, but she was dubious about their chances of  
survival. Only one child would have been able to execute such an athletic feat at his age, she mused as she looked at the dirty wall, and she loved his father too much to hurt him by telling them about his son's prank.

* * *

Dropping her towel in a manner that would have made any movie-star jealous, Rogue sank into the marvelously, bubbly bath. Smelling of a generic spring field, complete with suitably unidentifiable flowers, it had been one of her rare, self-indulgent purchases. Despite her current, improved financial status, she had been poor as a child and still had some of the old mindsets in place. Spending money on anything other than food, rent and clothes was impossible when your mother earned subminimum wage, she thought, and your father was a photograph in a high-school yearbook. Remy, on the other hand, was ridiculously extravagant. Especially when it came to Luc, she added as she picked a Water Wars Superman off the ledge at the end of the bath and examined it. The Super Soaking Action was in reality a rather sad and pathetic squirt that she doubted would scare a kitten, let alone stop a supervillain. She was reluctant to tell her husband that it was unnecessary to buy their son every new toy that came on the market, although she had made 'subtle' hints about it in the past. After all, he too had had an early childhood that could best be described as bleak and wanted to give Luc everything that he had not had. Which evidently covered everything from a roof over his head to a seemingly endless supply of ridiculous action figures.  
  
Rogue sighed, replacing Superman and picking up a bar of equally faux lavender soap. As her husband had so kindly mentioned, she smelt like the inside of a tin-pot after hours of hand-to-hand combat with Shi'ar Guardian Droids - or so Beast had assured her they were, although she suspected that he had invented them after reading one too many science-fiction novels. She wasn't quite sure whether to take Remy's comment as a compliment or not, knowing his fondness for cooking, although how he had wrinkled his nose seemed to indicate that flattery was not his intention. He was being unreasonable, of course. It wasn't her fault that her powers required her to attack at close-range and that oil and coolant fluid had a habit of spraying  
anyone within a few feet. She still wondered why Beast had chosen to use such archaic machinery, given the level of holographic technology in the Danger Room. Sadism probably, she grimaced, as she inspected a lock of oil-matted chestnut hair.  
  
Applying shampoo to the offending curls, she sank into the bubbles and allowed her tight muscles to relax. Mystique had never told her that having a family and fighting for a cause could be so exhausting. Mind you, she  
added as she turned the hot water faucet on with a foot, she had perhaps been foolish to accept the burden of leadership that had fallen on her during the latter months of Ororo's second pregnancy. Although Rogue had  
accepted on the position on the condition that it was temporary, it had been almost two years since Ororo's son had been born and she seemed no more inclined to take it up than at the beginning. Not that she blamed her friend for not wanting to leave her baby for longer than was strictly necessary. She remembered the strange wrench she had felt when taking Xavier up on his offer to head one of the teams, knowing and hating that it would mean less time with little Luc. He had been two-and-a-quarter (in his own words) at the time and seemingly a different child every day. Still, her hand went thoughtfully to her abdomen, if what she suspected was correct, Ororo would be forced to reassume leadership of the team very soon. As in four months very soon.  
  
Humming, up to her neck in warm water, Rogue wondered how long she should wait before telling her husband about the enforced, but not unpleasant, change to her carefully laid plans. He would realize soon enough, of course, and would be terrified by the seeming lack of knowledge on her part. After all, ignorance would not cause her to temper her actions appropriately. Appropriately in Remy's lexicon was defined as complete bed-rest through all three trimesters with him running around catering for her every whim and panicking if she put a toe outside the house. She smirked, as she remembered how . . . inappropriately she had behaved when carrying Luc and the endless 'suggestions' that he had made to her about modifying her lifestyle. This was going to be fun, after all.  
  
"Inside of a tin-pot, indeed," she repeated scornfully, and decided to let him torture himself.  


* * *

A very smug Luc LeBeau smiled up at his father. That is to say, Remy was almost certain that it was Luc, as all that was visible of the face were twin, eerily glowing, red-on-black eyes peeping through a thick mask of mud. Leaves were tangled in the caked hair, while decorating the mouth area were crumbs of what once had probably been cookies. The clean shirt and shorts that Remy could have sworn were white and blue respectively were a uniform shade of sludge, as was every inch of skin on his body.  
  
"Dieu, a swamp-monster," he grinned at the tiny boy, "Have ya come t'eat us?"  
  
Luc shook his head with the infinite patience of the young explaining something to an undoubtedly stupid adult, "Ah'm Luc LeBeau, jungle tracker extraordinaire."  
  
"Ya better hope ya maman doesn't track ya down," he stooped to pick his son up, in order to save the carpet, wincing as he saw what had a few seconds ago been a pristine Armani shirt become an interesting shade of brown too. Still, he thought, shirts were a few thousand dollars a dozen, while he only had one child. Strangely enough, although Remy had often thought that he would not be contented with less than a dynasty, Luc had proven him wrong by being more than sufficient. Contending with a pregnant Rogue also had dampened his enthusiasm for a sprawling clan considerably, he thought with a grin.  
  
"Momma'll kill me dead," the boy lamented colorfully, looking considerably more crestfallen than he had before.  
  
"Better get ya t'de bathroom before den, petit."  
  
Halfway up the stairs, he remembered that his wife, who would be less than delighted if a grubby Luc burst in on her, occupied it. Well, had occupied it as a considerably better smelling Rogue emerged, ensconced in a white, linen bathrobe. Her eyes widened as she saw her child and her lips tightened in a highly suspicious manner, almost as if she was trying to suppress helpless laughter.  
  
"Mah lawd, swamprat, we now know who our son takes aftah,"  
  
"Oui, m'sweet Mississippi Mudpie, we do," he countered, dredging up Bobby's old name for her. She had hated it about as much as Ororo loathed being called Stormy - a fact Iceman had quickly learnt while being held a few hundred feet above the ground. As he spoke, he could see the promise of a bird's eye view of Salem Center on her face. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy flying with her - being completely alone at a thousand feet had its possibilities - but that she was capable of making her point through decidedly dangerous loop-de-loops and dives. Luc chuckled.  
  
"Momma wants ta kill you dead now, Daddy."  
  
She grinned and turned back into the bathroom, from which the sound of running water soon emerged. The boy's laughter changed to a look of profound disgust and he squirmed in an attempt to get loose, mud flaking onto the floor as he did so. Fortunately, for the moment, the stripe in his hair (now brown with mud) was his only obvious inheritance from his mother and he sulkily gave up after a few minutes.  
  
"She'll ruin my camouflage," Luc whined, "Killer Croc will be able to find me an' he'll eat me."  
  
"Why would Killer Croc be after ya, petit?" Remy asked seriously, knowing all too well that the fictional character from Batman could be a real danger, such as the shape-shifting Sinister, in disguise. Besides, even if it were only Luc's imagination, in the uncertain boundary between fact and fiction in the world of the child, his son would still need reassurance. He himself had believed that the loup-garou of Fagan's stories lurked in every dark New Orleans alleyway, undefeatable by six year-old reason. Then again, more plausibly, Luc just could be trying to escape a bath.  
  
"'CauseAhtookhisevilmindcontrolcookies," the boy answered quickly, looking more than a little ashamed.  
  
"Ya took his evil, mind-control cookies?" he repeated, scared that some stranger had fed his son something more damaging than lies, "Where were dey?"  
  
"Coolin' on Auntie Ro's porch," Luc mumbled, burying his face in Remy's shirt, "I knew it was wrong, daddy, but . . . they had cherries in them an' ...."  
  
Although the crime was relatively minor, able to be dismissed as an innocent piece of mischief, he was stunned by the implications of his son's confession. He was still a practising, unrepentant thief, who took immense pride in his work and skill, but he had hoped that his son would choose a different path to him. Would not have to risk life and freedom every time he accepted a job. Would not have to go through the endless, dangerous initiations that marked his passage into the Guild. He had lost a cousin to the Tilling, a brother to the assassins, a piece of his soul to the Rites of Passage, and did not want to add a son to the list of casualties.  
  
"Go bath, Luc," the coolness in his voice surprised even himself as he placed the boy on the floor, although he recognized it as a blind to cover his fear, "We'll talk about dis later."  
  
"Pere?" he sounded puzzled, confused, heartbroken at the sudden remoteness of his beloved father. Eyes questioning her husband, Rogue put a hand on the boy's thin shoulder and gave it a brief, compassionate squeeze.  
  
"Make sure you get rid o' all th' dirt, sweetie, 'cause Ah'll deal with Killer Croc if he comes near you."  
  
Uncertainly, tears beginning to sparkle in his brilliant eyes, Luc trailed into the bathroom and shut the door softly behind him. Small as he was, he looked more fragile and tiny than Remy could have thought possible. He had hurt his son for reasons that the boy could not hope to understand and he doubted that he could repair the harm his actions had done to their relationship. Rogue shook her head, the eloquent gesture saying more than words could hope to do.  
  
"Ya don' understan'," he said defensively.  
  
"Damn straight Ah don't, LeBeau," she replied sharply, "Nor does Luc. It was bit o' innocent, childish mischief and you're actin' like he's stolen th' crown jewels. If Ah had a buck foh each time Cody an' Ah raided cookie jars, Ah'd have been a rich woman long before Ah left Caldecott."  
  
He opened his mouth to explain, but she preempted him, planting hands on hips in a gesture that he knew meant that the discussion was closed.  
  
"Ah don't want ta hear yo' reasons, Rem, 'cause Ah suspect it's th' same reason Ah watch him like a hawk every time Raven comes ta visit. You don't want him ta become a thief, any more than Ah want him ta become a terrorist," she paused, "Still, it doesn't mean that we must expect him ta be a saint. He's a four year-old boy, which Ah'm assured by yo' tante, is th ' age when they're th' devil incarnate. He will want ta play with dart guns an' he will filch th' odd cookie, but that's perfectly normal an' natural. So, lovah, that leaves the question - what are you goin' ta do about it?  


* * *

At some time between midnight and morning, Remy felt a very small, cold creature creep determinedly into their bed and snuggle next to him for warmth. He naturally exuded energy, losing heat constantly to his surroundings and both Luc and Rogue tended to take advantage of it. In the case of the latter, he had his suspicions about her underlying motives as she had often spoken about her mutant power keeping away the chill. Luc had evidently not inherited that aspect of her powers, he thought, as what felt like an ice-block even through a T-shirt brushed against his back. Where had the boy been for his feet to be so icy?  
  
"Ti-Luc," he whispered, "Ya been trekkin' t'rough Antarctica?"  
  
"No, daddy," a Southern drawl answered, "Ah've been makin' choc-chip cookies fo' Auntie 'Ro."  
  
Suddenly, he became aware of the cause of the smoky smell that had been drifting on the edge of olfactory consciousness for a goodly while. Luc's culinary efforts were charring as they spoke; Tante 'Ro seemed doomed in the cookie-department.  
  
"How long have dey been bakin', petit?"  
  
"Two hours."  
  
"Den . . . uh . . . dey probably be ready t'come out now," he scooped up the child and ran down the stairs, Luc laughing at the unexpected ride. As he had suspected, the erstwhile choc-chip cookies were now chunks of carbon, smoking merrily in the oven. His son's face fell as he saw that to which his efforts had been reduced. Coughing as he removed them from the stove's shelf, Remy deposited the tray on the table outside, before opening the windows to let the smoke out of the kitchen.  


"I'm sorry, daddy."  
  
"Not'ing t'be sorry 'bout, Luc," he grinned, "I set m'tante's kitchen on fire once when I was learnin' how t'cook beignets. Wasn't able t'sit f'r a week after dat."  
  
The boy laughed delightedly, and Remy knew that the incident had mended the damage his earlier comment had caused. For that, he would have gladly sacrificed the contents of an entire cookie factory.  
  
"Now, what d'ya say ta us making a fresh batch, petit?"

* * *

Ororo awoke to a knock on the door at what she considered to be an unreasonably early time. Although she usually was awake long before six o' clock, Ainet had decided to come down with a case of the common stomach bug and she had spent most of the night passing a bucket to her sick daughter. As a result, the prospect of visitors did not fill her with glee. Mind you, the thought of her bed was about the only thing that did.  
  
"Yes?" she said impatiently, then pushed the door open to reveal an embarrassed, yet excited, Luc and an apologetic-looking Remy. The tiny boy was clutching a tin painted with unidentifiable flowers, which he thrust into her hands with a grin. Curious despite her exhaustion, Storm opened the lid to reveal some of the most luscious looking choc-chip cookies she had ever seen, nestling in crackly, green paper.  
  
"I made ya dese, Tante 'Ro," he said proudly in the Cajun he always used with people he considered friends of his father.  
  
"At t'ree o'clock in de mornin'," his father added wryly, "As Rogue informed me before askin' me if I was completely addled. He wanted t'bring dem t'ya straight away once dey were cooled and packaged. I stalled him f'r an hour by helpin' him make blueberry muffins f'r his mother."  
  
"I'm sorry f'r stealin' ya cherry ones, but dese are much nicer," Luc continued ingenuously.  
  
Smiling, she leaned down and kissed her godson on his cheek.  
  
"You are right, Luc. They are nicer. When Ainet gets over her stomach 'flu, she will be delighted."  
  
Remy raised an eyebrow, "Seems t'be goin' around de mansion at de moment. Rogue's also complainin' of nausea."  
  
Ironically, "I suspect the cause of your wife's indisposition is slightly different to that of my daughter's."  
  
"Ya mean...? She's . . .?" he grinned, looking more delighted than Ororo had seen him since Luc's imminent arrival was announced. His longing for a daughter was no secret, although she knew that he loved Luc as much as it was possible for anyone to love a child.  
  
"I mean I had better become accustomed to leading the team again!"

* * *

This is a prequel to Saturday Morning in Salem Center. Characters are Marvel's, except for Luc who is far cuter than any child has a right to be. I know my brother was never this cute, and I doubt any other laddie is, although they're certainly as noisy. Comments to brucepat@iafrica.com. Thanks to my beta-reader for all her comments and kindnesses.   


  
  



	3. The Sphinx's Question

The Eighth Color of the Rainbow 

The Sphinx's Question

Luc LeBeau, world-famous adventurer and explorer, was in search of the fabled Idol of Lost Lemuria. Accompanied only by his brave if less renowned companion, Ainet Munroe, and sustained only by several hefty portions of chocolate cake, he had trekked many miles and overcome many dangers on his quest. He had escaped the attention of dangerous tribesmen having a ritual feast (who had looked uncannily like Jean and Logan on a picnic), made his way through a crocodile-infested swamp (which had been a particularly interesting mud-puddle), and had just crossed the Misty Mountains (whose step-like formation had astounded both him and his friend). Despite all these setbacks, his faithful, indefatigable friend and he continued undaunted on their journey, despite exhaustion, heat and . . . 

"Can we stop, Luc? I'm tiiiiiiired," the defatigable Ainet whined from a few feet behind him, where she was perched on the summit of the Misty Mountains, "It's almost tea-time too and your dad said he was making bay-a-nets." 

"Sure, de game's messed up now, anyway," he sighed, then added with the gloomy air of a sage foretelling bad news, "Maman will make me bath, ya know. Bet Indiana Jones' maman never made him bath." 

Her chubby face screwed up in a grimace, "You don't think she'll make me bath?" 

"Prob'ly," he came to sit beside her on the mansion's steps, removing his backpack from his shoulders and placing it carefully beside him. It contained such valuable treasures as the latest Superman comic, an admirable plastic spade that was perfect for finding beetles, the beetles found with said admirable plastic spade and a box of snap-cards. 

"She might be up here at the mansion," Ainet suggested hopefully. 

With natural French pessimism, Luc replied: "Maman's always where you don't want her to be. She's like . . . Batman, 'cept we're not evil. Dieu, Ain, I don't know why all Mamans t'ink dirt is evil. So, de real question is whether you think Poppa's beignets are worth bein' washed for. . . . " 

* * *

Humming to himself, Remy set aside another batch of golden beignets for Rogue to dip in honey and put on the serving platter. Between them was what he fondly imagined to be a comfortable silence where both parties were so in tune with each other that they did not need words to communicate. He glanced across at her, unable to repress a slight, proud smile for all the six years of marriage that had passed between them. 

Today, she had braided her hair, white streak snaking down her thick, chestnut plait, and had clipped a few vagrant strands back with twin, glittery clips. A green waistcoat, resplendent with a lizard-pattern that was obviously inspired by Escher, set off a white blouse and black jeans. As a final touch, she was wearing her favorite pair of well-scuffed boots. He was not sure which was cuter on her - the clothes, the smudge of flour on her nose or the tiny, perplexed crease in her forehead - and gave up trying to decide. She was the most perfect woman he had ever met, he thought, and he was the luckiest man alive to have her as his wife. 

"Honey?" the object of his undivided adoration, the love of his life and heart of his heart, turned to him with a speculative look in her eyes. He felt his silly grin become sillier, as, mentally, he swept the mixing bowls and ingredients off the table, consigned the beignets to burn and calculated the odds of their son walking in on them. 

"Oui, cherie?" 

Her lips parted, "Do y'think Ah'm getting fat?" 

The words were more effective than the coldest of showers. Remy felt his heart sink into his expensive sneakers, knowing that he probably wouldn't leave the kitchen in one piece now. He would be lucky if he did not need major surgery. He had always known that the time would come when Rogue would ask him the Question. He had thought he would prepare himself for it, going so far to read books and magazines with titles like "Bridget Jones' Diary" and "Sassy" as research. However, although he was now all too familiar with how to wax his legs and get that special guy to phone him, he was none the wiser as to how the Question could be answered with minimal pain on his part. Indeed, he had just become more aware of what his beloved wife would do to him when he made a hash of the answer. 

Swallowing convulsively, he ventured: "I t'ink you're perfect jus' de way ya are." 

Her eyes narrowed and he knew he had said the wrong thing - not that there was a right response to the Question, "Just th' way Ah am? So you're sayin' that Ah *am*, LeBeau?" 

He glanced around the room in desperation, working how long it would take him to reach the door and whether he would manage to do so before Rogue threw the boiling oil after him. There was no question of her missing him. She had the eye of a trained sniper and the arm of a terrorist who was far too accustomed to hurling grenades and molotov cocktails for his comfort. For all Rogue had left her illegal past behind her more decisively than he had or ever could, she still retained Mystique's teachings and her attitude towards the proper way to manage a man. Raven probably strongly approved of regular doses of boiling oil to keep a husband in line! He decided it would be wise not to risk first-degree burns on his ability to break the land-speed record. Perhaps it was not too late for flattery, after all. . . . 

"Cherie, when le Bon Dieu made ya, He wept because He knew dat nothin' else in His entire creation could match up t'ya," he said sincerely as he assumed his most charming, lopsided grin. That smile alone usually answered any pressing questions that women might have had, like "Your place or mine?" and "Can I buy you a drink?", but, unfortunately, his wife seemed to have grown immune to it. If anything, it seemed to infuriate her further. Her eyebrows contracted. Her lips tightened. Her hands went to her hips. He could see her eyes scanning the room for a small, breakable object to hurl at his head. 

"Gawd, LeBeau, now you're avoidin' th' question," she tossed at him, her voice rising by the syllable, "It ain't that hard t'answer. Am Ah fat? Yes or no?" 

He held up his hands, thinking desperately about what answer would result in less pain on his part. If he said 'no', which was the logical answer, Rogue would accuse him of lying to appease her, would come to the stunning conclusion that she was a hippo and would proceed to make him sleep in the dog-kennel for a month. (The fact that they had neither a dog nor a kennel in which to put it would not deter her in the least.) If he said 'yes', the net result would be the same, although it would possibly be reached a little quicker. . . . 

"Told ya Maman would be home," his son piped from behind the door, and Remy thought that Luc had never sounded sweeter to him or been more welcome than at that moment. He was like a life-buoy thrown to a drowning man; a call from the governor while a prisoner was being strapped into an electric chair; a pair of earmuffs at an O-Town concert. He could use Luc as a pretext to escape the kitchen, then return in a few hours time dripping chocolates, flowers and profound apologies. 

"Can I get back t'ya on dat one, cherie?", he threw over his shoulder as he sprinted for the door, "Luc needs . . . uh . . . Luc needs shoes an' I said I'd take him t'de mall." 

He scooped up his surprised son and dashed for the car, leaving Rogue to yell behind him that 'Mystique was right. Ah should have dumped yo' ass long ago, especially as it's also startin' to look a little flabby.' That said, she slammed the door with enough force to splinter the wood and he heard the crash and chime of glasses breaking in the kitchen. 

Remy sighed and added diamonds to his list. 

* * *

Clasping her hand tightly over her mouth to stifle her giggles, Rogue watched Remy contort in front of the mirror to get a better view of his tush. He had not seen or heard her enter, so engrossed was he in checking whether or not it was as flabby as she had said. It was easily the funniest sight she had seen in years. He had an intent expression on his face as he twisted from side-to-side and peered at his reflection. From time to time, he touched his butt gingerly as if afraid of what he might feel. He even kept up a constant, murmured monologue in French about having to exercise more and having eaten too many beignets. He obviously was worried, she thought with a pang of contrition - she had overheard him earlier asking Luc if he thought poppa had put on weight. It had been cruel of her to suggest it, especially as he still had the nicest one she had ever seen. Wallets of small change would have bounced off it without a problem. 

"You aren't still worried 'bout what Ah said earlier?" she drawled. He jumped at the sound of her voice, a guilty flush stealing over his cheeks at being caught. 

"Ya don't t'ink m'derriere is flabby den?" his eyes had something of a mischievous twinkle as he looked at her. 

"Ah never said that, Monsieur LeBeau," she raised an eyebrow, "In fact, Ah'm so unsure that Ah wouldn't want to give you an answer without . . . uh . . . proper examination of the parts in question." 

"I'm prepared t'go along, Madame Darkholme, but only f'r de sake of research, ya understand." 

"Perfectly," she laughed, "Now turn off th' lights . . . ." 


	4. Gotta Learn 'Em All

The Eighth Color of the Rainbow 

Gotta Learn 'Em All!

Lifting her head from her novel, Rogue glanced over to where her husband was absorbed in reading a sheaf of papers of his own and raised an amused eyebrow. Her first thought on seeing him was as unprintable in any G-Rated fanfiction as always. Remy was never particularly hard on the eye, although she would never have told him so on the principle that a wife's duty was to prick her man's ego whenever she could, but he was especially gorgeous when he was concentrating. A slight furrow developed between his eyes, while his tongue protruded a fraction from his mouth in an almost child-like manner. On occasion, his nose would wrinkle slightly, although he had denied it fervently when she had pointed it out to him. Apart from that twitch, he could remain seated for hours without moving, poring over blueprints and schematics as he planned his pinches. 

She smiled wryly. If the movies and novels were to be believed, being a thief required little more than a fondness for the colour black and an array of gadgetry that could counter everything from locks to alsatians. esearch -- weeks spent in dusty archives and libraries sorting through dusty papers -- was not glamourous, and nor was hours spent repeatedly tracing every detail of the job from beginning to end. In their years of marriage, she had come to learn that a successful thief was an anally retentive thief and Remy took the prize for that. 

"Who is going t'wake up a million dollars poorer tomorrow, hon?" 

"Gospel truth, cherie? I wish I was plannin' a pinch at de moment," he grinned sheepishly at her, holding out a sheet of paper, "Be easier dan tryin' t'remember all 251 of dese little buggers." 

Quirking a curious eyebrow, she stretched out an arm to take the page from him. On it was drawn an animal that she suspected was the result of an unlikely romance between a Visigoth and a kangaroo. It certainly had got the least attractive features of both its parents. Large, brown and ugly, it had a helmet on its head and a joey peeking from its pouch. It was unmistakably a Pokemon and the word 'Kangaskhan' was printed beneath it in Remy's precise handwriting. 

"Best o' luck," she chuckled in amusement, "I hear tell it's almost impossible for anyone over th' age of thirteen ta do, just like it's impossible for any man married more'n five years t'remember his weddin' anniversary." 

His voice held a note of mock reproach, his smile was teasing, "What? Me forget de day dat I gave up m'freedom in exchange for a screechin' harpy of a wife? Never." 

She sniffed, "See if this harpy of a wife helps you learn them now. Umm, why are y'learning them anyway? Ah know some of those cards are pretty valuable, but . . . ." 

"I want t'have a sensible conversation with our son again," Remy replied with a grin, "All Luc talks about is Pokemon, an' I get lost somewhere between de Pikachus and de Squirtles," he paused, scanning the sheet in front of him, "Still, I t'ink I got dem all memorised now. Just have t'pass de Luc litmus test . . . . Lemme go and show off t'him now." 

Shaking her head, she laid aside her novel and followed him down the stairs to the den. There were some things that were too priceless to miss, and her ever-so-suave, ever-so-charming husband trying desperately to remember the names of 251 Pokemon was one of them. She was not sure which would be funnier: his look of smug pride when he got them all correct or his absolute devestation when he missed one. 

As she had expected, Luc was sprawled across the floor, chin in his heads, eyes intently fixed on the television. On the screen, a group of children were walking past a row of telephone boxes on a beach. One of them had a pair of goggles over brown hair that would have put Wolverine's to shame, while another was wearing a pink, cowboy hat and fringed dress. Madonna had a lot to answer for, Rogue thought with a smile. They were followed by what appeared to be a group of small, obscenely cute monsters. An orange batpig and a green plant with wilted petals were the two she noticed at first glance. 

"What are ya watchin', baby?" she asked as she slipped down beside him. 

"Momma! You won't believe it, but . . . there's another show that's just as cool as Pokemon! It's about this group of kids who were sucked up through a hole in the sky and ended up in this weird world where they met these weird monsters who can digivolve into other monsters and that orange, flying one's Patamon and he's my favourite although I also like Agumon who can shoot fire and Agumon is Tai's Digimon and Tai is so cool . . ." Luc paused in his excited babble to suck in breath, "I'm going to watch it every single day and . . . daddy, will you buy me the action figures when they come out?" 

Remy, who had gone perceptibly pale, said weakly: "Sure, petit. Whatever ya want." 

Chuckling, she patted the spot on the floor beside her: "Come watch, LeBeau. You've got a lot of learnin' ahead of you. Batpig is Patamon. Charmander-wannabe is Agumon. You'll pick up the rest in time." 

"Sure, petite." 

* * *

THE END . . . OR IS IT? 

* * *

SCARY, POINTLESS EPILOGUE: 

Veemon: Hey! How come Patamon got mentioned and I didn't? -.-* 

Gatomon: Simple, you dope. You weren't around in the first series. 

Veemon: Why wasn't I around in the first series? 

Gatomon: Stop being an idiot before I use you as a scratching post. Davis wasn't around, therefore you weren't around. 

Patamon: The good, old days . . . 

Veemon: And you had an audience? Davis told me he was the only reason people watched the show. 

Gatomon and Patamon: O.O; 

* * *

Pikachu: Pika-chu! Pika! 

Hawkmon: My dear chap, may I recommend speech therapy? As it is, you sound like a drivelling idiot who can only say his own name. 

Pikachu: Pikachuuuuuuuuuuu! -.-* 

* * *

Charmander: Char! Charmander! Char! 

Agumon: Uhhh . . . Char? Ch-ar? 

Ash: There you are, Charmander. Get back into your Pokeball! . . . Hey, why isn't it working? 

Agumon: I'm not Charmander! I'm Agumon! 

Ash: Charmander, when did you learn to speak? And Agumon is a stupid name. I 'd rather call you Flammie! 

Agumon: O.O; 

* * *

Patamon: Like a shadow, I glide through the night on silent wings. They turn around and I am there. Evil-doers tremble when I pass, cower at my name, pray that they never meet me while doing wrong . . . For I am BATPIG! 

* * *

REALLY THE END. AREN'T YOU TERRIFIED? 

* * *

DISCLAIMER: My, I've confirmed my incipient insanity with this piece. I apologise for the scary, pointless epilogues. They're totally unfunny, but I had too much fun writing them. X-Men are Marvel's. Pokemon are Nintendo's. Di-di-digimon are Toei's. I'm not making a profit, nor should I off this sheer and unadulterated fluff. Comments to brucepat@iafrica.com. Oh, and it' s a LIE that it's impossible for people over 13 to memorise all the Pokemon and Digimon. *I* know them all, even though I suspect I shouldn't be too proud of that fact. Finally, gotta say PATAMON FOREVER! >:D 


	5. Saturday Morning in Salem Center

Saturday Morning in Salem Center 

Saturday Morning in Salem Center

* * *

  


Rogue Darkholme-LeBeau woke up with nausea and a splitting headache to the sound of excited whooping, emanating from somewhere down the hall. That somewhere inevitably was Luc's room, where a noise rivalling Siryn and Banshee Unplugged! tended to be the norm. She groaned, stretching a lazy arm out to pick up the alarm from the bedside table. Seven o'clock on a Saturday morning and her 'beloved' son - she found herself entertaining unmaternal thoughts of sending him to a convent - was already in full voice. She wondered how Remy, who thought that the sun rose at eleven, could stand it. Extending another hand to rouse her husband, she met sheet and empty space. Had he left on another mission for the New Son last night without telling her? He knew that she disapproved of his association with the shadowy figure who claimed to be mutantkind's benefactor, considered it stupid to trust someone about whom they knew nothing. If he had been that sneaky, she thought sweetly, viciously, it might do him good to sleep where he could slip out with greater ease. In other words, on the outside steps.

"Maman! Momma!" Luc tore into their - her, she amended equally savagely and smugly - bedroom with a policeman's hat set askew on his head. He was wielding a plastic baton, while a silver raygun at his side completed the ensemble. "I caught de t'ief."

Her child's accent was a bizarre amalgamation of Southern drawl and Cajun lilt, slipping between the two as easily as he did between English and French. Strangely enough, he tended to speak her husband's dialect to her, rather than her own natural one, as if he knew how much she enjoyed the beauty of it.

"Oh?" Rogue resigned herself to remaining awake and clambered out of bed, pulling on a gown, "Ah'll have ta make sure he doesn't do it again. Who had th' nerve ta break inta our house?"

His smile broadened, "Papa! We were playin' Cops an' Robbers. Tried t'kidnap M'sieu Lapin, but I handcuffed him to de chair."

She chuckled at the thought of her suave husband attached to a tiny, red stool by a pair of jimcrack, plastic handcuffs. Her son's stuffed rabbit, given to him by Uncle Lapin, was hardly the sort of prize that he normally pursued. It almost made up for being awoken unreasonably early. Almost, she repeated as another wave of nausea washed over her, taking her sense of humour with it. Luc seemed to notice her sudden change of mood - she wondered if Remy's empathic power had been passed to his son, although it was far too early for it to manifest itself?

  


"Ya be all right, maman?"

"Yeah," she managed a weak smile, "Let's go see yo' Master Criminal." 

Forcing her muscles to obey, she dragged herself the short distance to Luc's room. Painted in the primary shades of Superman with a frieze of the hero on the wall, a matching duvet on the bed and curtains over the windows, it was obvious where Luc's loyalty lay. He even had a chunk of luminous-green rock that he swore was Kryptonite. Rogue would have been more credulous had her husband's clothes not been splattered with paint of an identical colour. Speaking of whom . . . . She smirked as she saw Remy's abashed look as she entered the room. Dressed in jeans and a ratty sweatshirt, he was still  
impossibly handsome, charming and . . . insufferable when it came to her pregnancy.

"Petite, what are ya doin' up?" the cheap handcuffs snapped open and he stood, brushing off chalk from his thighs. Luc made a face as he saw how successful his snare had been.

"Daddy, that's cheatin'," he whined in a voice that was pure Mississippian. Remy grinned at his son, scooping him up easily. The child laughed and Rogue leaned against the door, supporting her wobbly legs and admiring the picture. Apart from the white streak in Luc's auburn hair, he could have passed for a younger Gambit. Red-on-black eyes were set in a face that would  
break a thousand hearts in its time. 

"I'm a t'ief. I'm expected t'cheat. Should know dat by now, Inspector LeBeau, but I bet ya don't know what t'ieves do t'cops when dey escape an' catch dem."

"What?"

"Dey . . . TICKLE DEM!"

Father dropped son onto the bed, before carrying out on his threat. A squirming, giggling Luc attempted to get away only to be ambushed by the pillow which led to another bout of tickle-torture. When Remy finally stopped, he blew a cracker, whistle which seemed to lance through Rogue's skull like a white-hot dagger. Another unpleasant and decidedly Grinch-like thought crossed her mind.

"Ah'll have t'arrest you fo' that, suh," he said, escaping down the stairs into the kitchen, "Right aftah Sooooooooooooooperman."

The noise faded as the child clattered down the steps, Gambit wiped a hand across his forehead, "Dieu, Luc certainly is . . . energetic. Ya, on de other hand, look like ya be about t'faint. At de risk o' soundin' repetitive, why are ya up?"

Collapsing into the field of Supermen that was her son's bed, "Your game didn't leave me too much of an option, darlin'. Ah'll be fine, though - it's just mornin' sickness."

"Ya sure?" he sounded dubious as he came to sit next to her. She groaned, knowing that it signalled the beginning of his personal medical examination, then wished she hadn't because another twinge of worry touched his face. On occasion, she wished that Tante Mattie hadn't taught him how the basics of herbcraft, because it had led to him believing that he was eminently  
qualified to diagnose everything from chicken pox to colic.

"Ah'm sure Ah'm seven months pregnant," she patted her distended belly for good measure, then regretted it as the urge to vomit surged up within her again. He frowned, resting his hand over her own on her abdomen. The baby, which promised to make the hyperactive Luc look sedate, turned what felt to be a series of somersaults, punctuating each twist with a kick. Grimacing,  
she tried to shift into a more comfortable position and found that it was impossible.

"Oui, but de morning sickness went after de t'ird when ya were carryin' Luc," he paused and she sensed he was going to mention Tante Mattie, "I phoned Tante 'cause I was worried 'bout ya an' she said dat it rarely lasted beyond den."

"Ah'm a mutant," she met his concern with a wry half-smile, "Mah life is a string o' unusual occurances. Hell, Ah'd be *worried* if'n everythin' was normal. "

"True," he nodded, chuckling, "But ya should still get all de rest ya can." 

"Ah'd tend ta agree," she yawned, "Yo' son differs with both o' us, though."

Her husband raised an eyebrow, "Mebbe it's time I suggested a sleep-over wit ' Tante 'Ro. Ainet an' him can tire each other out. He'll be t'rilled, although I t'ink Stormy'll want m'head. F'r now, why don' ya get back t'bed? I'll take Luc out on de town f'r de mornin'. We c'n visit such dens o' iniquity as Toys'R'Us an' McDonalds."

Rogue gave him a weary, but grateful, grin, "Have Ah told you recently how much Ah love you?"

Remy kissed her lightly on the lips, then returned her smile with another lopsided one of his own. She saw him glance around the cluttered room - she couldn't break him of the habit of buying Luc everything he wanted and she was convinced the child was going to be spoilt rotten - then back at her. She knew she looked terrible with her mussed hair, dark-shadowed eyes and tacky, gingham nightdress. Fit as she was and taut as her abs were, despite three month hiatuses from active duty in both cases, she had only started showing very late during her two terms. Consequently, she had refused to spend a fortune on maternity wear. At times like this though, she thought, it would be nice to look like something out of a new mother's magazine. She had always envied those serene women who seemed to swan through their pregnancies as if it were no more inconvenient than a ticket to Hawaii. Of course, they had the support of their perfect, sterilised families. Their husbands were always ruggedly handsome, vague figures on the periphery, while their children were blessedly quiet and considerate. Luc would have brought her toast by now, while Remy would be off to his high-profile career. Grinning, she ran a hand through her hair, trying to smooth the unruly strands back into place.

"You don't need ta say it - Ah look a wreck."

"No, ya look beautiful," he replied automatically, then seriously, "It's jus ' . . . I never imagined we'd have dis."

Something in his tone prompted her to ask, nervously: "You regret it?"

Shaking his head, "Jus' how long it took us t'get here. When I t'ink o' all de time we wasted arguin' about petty t'ings, bein' scared o' trustin each other, missin' what was really important . . . ."

He trailed off, hand coming to rest on her stomach again. She twined her fingers with his, rubbing one over the cool, gold ring that he wore day and night. It would have been incongruous on the Remy LeBeau she had known before their marriage, but on this one it fitted perfectly.

"That's in th' past, hon," she said softly, "The present is us - you, me and Luc."

He grinned, "An' Baby Bella?"

Slapping him playfully, because it was an old joke between them, "Ah thought we agreed on Irene."

"Ah well," he sighed theatrically, "Guess we'll have t'wait f'r de next baby."

"NEXT BABY?" Rogue's voice was dangerously low as she drew herself up to a sitting position, then wished she hadn't. Remy was notoriously fond of the idea of a huge clan - a bad combination of a Catholic upbringing and a family that needed one to act as a private army. Still smiling saccharinely, she allowed some of her mental shields to slip and the morning sickness, headache, backpain and exhaustion to seep out into the aether. 

He gulped. "I should take Luc shoppin' now, cherie, shouldn' I? Superman should be finished."

Rogue allowed herself another private smirk before retreating back to their blissfully quiet room.

* * *

  
Luc had not been as excited as he had anticipated, Remy thought with something akin to disappointment. Trips to Toys'R'Us were usually celebrated with slightly less fervour than certain religious cults greeted the coming of the Messiah. His tiny son was strapped in the back of the Ferrari, looking preoccupied as his Superman action-figure (with 'real laser eyes', that were actually red lights, and speech, that uniformly sounded like 'prfftzt') did another loop-de-loop through the air. "Hear dey have new stock, petit. A Jimmy Olsen wit' Snap'n'Flash Camera Action," he said encouragingly. In the four years of Luc's life, Remy had become something of an action figure connossieur, pursuing them with a singlemindedness previously devoted to diamonds or non-sequential bills. Luc was deathly quiet. Something was evidently wrong - Olsen was his favorite supporting character.

"Qu'est-que ne va pas, mon fils?" [What's wrong, son?]

Muffled sobs and an extremely moist sniff, "Momma's sick an' she's gonna die, isn't she?"

This was more serious than he had imagined. From where had Luc got the idea that Rogue was ill and how long had it been tormenting his normally happy son? He resolved to personally ensure that the brat responsible became beatific in their commitment to truth.

"Who tol' ya dat?"

"No-one. Just knew it," his broken voice was almost inaudible over the purr of the car's engines, "Daddy, *is* Momma sick?"

"Ya mere's healthier dan a horse," he slowed the car as they pulled into the parking lot of the local mall in Salem Center, "Although she don' feel it at de moment."

Luc made no move to open the car-door, looking at his father with a crease between his eyebrows in the rearview mirror. It was a strangely adult gesture that unnerved Remy. From the little he had said, the boy appeared to be empathic, but he was extremely young to be manifesting it. Mind you, he amended, he had experienced touches of the same, brief flashes of other people's emotion, when he had been Luc's age.

"What's wrong with her?"

"Not'ing," Remy turned to face the child, "It's jus' dat ya little sister, Irene, is growin' in her an' dat makes her feel . . . pukey an' sore on occasion."

Not to mention homicidal, he added wryly, remembering his wife's quick temper when she was pregnant. Perhaps stopping at two was a good idea, especially if they promised to be as hyperactive as Luc was. Besides, he had got the girl for which he had longed, although he loved their little boy in a way that frightened him at times.

"I'll bash Eye-rare-nuh," he pronounced the difficult name slowly, brandishing his action figure for good effect.

"No, ya won't," he released the lock on the back door, before climbing out of his own and helping Luc down from the seat. Allowing himself a moment of paternal pride in their sturdy son in his jeans and red jersey, knowing that he would make any sacrifice for him, Remy held him for longer than was necessary. Still clutching Optic Blast Superman, his son looked pensively at him as if pondering something profound. 

"How'd Eye-rare-nuh get there?"

Laughing, "Dat's a story f'r when ya be a bit older." 

In one of the rapid changes of topic that come naturally to parents discussing the facts of life with very young and naive children, he had an inspiration: "But ya do know what will make ya mere feel much better?" 

Losing interest in the mystery of Irene, he asked: "What?"

"Follow me an' I'll show ya . . . ."

* * *

Present on the seat next to him, seating Heroic Knight Superman on a horse that was probably more expensive than a stable filled with them, Luc was completely content. His milkshake, although suspiciously devoid of anything resembling dairy, gave him a headache with each sip, just as he liked it. (Besides, even McDonalds was delicious after weeks of Jean Grey's recipes. A  
while ago, he had heard his mother threaten to hurl all his father's spices into orbit if he even thought of putting them in another dish for the next five months.) His action figure was about to defeat an undoubtedly evil spoon, while there was the promise of more goodies in the deliciously crackly Toys'R'Us packets. Most importantly, Luc thought, he was with his father, who he worshipped. 

Remy was busy turning a dollar-bill and a straw into a cocked hat for Helpless Damsel Lois Lane. Although she came with an undeniably silken and streamered one of her own, they had both agreed that there wasn't much of a career in being rescued by a knight, so had changed her into a Warrior Princess. Momma would approve, he thought, as his father added an axe to her  
ensemble.

"Now dat's my sorta femme," Remy said when finished, "C'n fly inta battle wit' Sir Clark of Kent."

"Watch out, Mistuh Spoonister," Luc grasped her around her disproportionate waist and brought her to stand with his cherished Superman. He brandished the axe once for effect. His father grinned mischievously, tapping the handle so that a rolled-up piece of paper knocked Helpless DamselWarrior Princess Lois Lane onto her side.

"Ya weapons are useless 'gainst de might of de spoonapult!"

Throwing Lois over the back of the horse, Luc charged the spoon, which turned into a sabre and began fencing with the plastic sword. The competition was about to get interesting when a smiling waitress came across to their table. It was odd, he pondered, how all women seemed to get a mushy expression on their face when they looked at his father. As odd as their pathological desire to pinch his cheeks and tell him how cute he was. His mother, fortunately, seldom did either. Mothers were usually sensible.

"Would you and your adorable, little boy like anything more, sir?"

Bottle-blonde and red-lipped, she was doodling hearts on her sketch-pad with a pencil. His father was grinning, but there was a strange stiffness to it, as if it was as false as the plastic clown by the door. He did not like this woman any more than his mother would have, but felt obligated to pretend that he did. It was a strange thought to come unbidden into his head and it unsettled him.

"Luc?"

He shook his head, looking shyly at Heroic Knight Superman. Lois Lane, hat askew, sprawled over the saddle gave him an idea.

"Do you think Momma would like anythin', daddy?"

"Ya maman would murder me if I brought anyt'ing stronger dan Ms Grey's cookin' home," his father said with a quirked eyebrow, turning to the waitress with evident relief, "No offense meant, cherie. M'wife's seven months pregnant."

She slashed through a heart, her voice icy: "I'll bring you your bill, sir." 

Remy wiped a hand across his forehead in a teasing gesture, smiling genuinely at Luc. The little boy was still perturbed by his earlier  
understanding, though, so returned it wanly. It was strange how he *knew* things that no one else could, as if he had plucked them from the thinker's mind. He knew that his mother and father hated to be apart for even the shortest while, felt it as physical pain. He knew that Ainet had a stash of marbles beneath the floor. He knew that Tante 'Ro had loved someone more than Oncle Bishop in the past and still did. He knew that Jean's two boys thought that he was weird, that she had told them not to play with him because he might be a bad influence. He knew that he was different because of his gift, feared that his parents would love him less because of it. 

"You didn't like her, did you, daddy?"

"Non," he admitted honestly, then met his eyes seriously: "Luc, I've been meanin' t'talk t'ya about . . . de feelin's ya get."

Sour dread balled in his stomach. How had his father discovered his knowing? Did he love him less because of it, now that there was another perfect child to choose? He scooted a few inches closer to Remy, scared that, if he were too far away, he could be left or forgotten. 

"No matter what Jean's two marmots say, dey be quite natural," his voice was brisk and businesslike, "I started gettin' dem myself at about ya age. Remember bein' scared o' dem, t'inking dat I was a freak or dat I'd done somet'ing wrong t'have ended up wit' dem. It wasn' easy dealin' wit' dem on m'own an' I don' want de same t'happen t'ya. If ya'll let me, I'd like t'teach ya about dem so dat ya can control dem rather dan de other way roun'."

Relief flooded Luc - they were, he was, normal! - and he hugged his beloved father: "Oui, papa."

Kissing a cheek, "Je t'aime, Luc, ya do know dat?"

"Je t'aime aussi, papa."

* * *

  
The earth was moving beneath her. The continents were shifting, breaking, reforming under her back. After years spent saving the world, it had decided to foil her plans by simply destroying itself. Deciding that she didn't care, because it would mean a truncated end of the nine months of torture that was pregnancy, she pulled a pillow over her head and attempted to ignore Armageddon.

"Momma! Momma!"

Opening a green eye and finding it met a world of burgundy, she tossed it off her face. Luc was bouncing on the King-sized bed with a decidedly smug expression on his face. Irene was following her older brother's example, Rogue groaned, judging by the movement in her stomach.

"Petit," Remy rounded the stairs carrying more Toys'R'Us packets than she thought possible, "I t'ought I tol' ya t'wait until ya maman woke."

"Ah know, but you said this'd make her feel better . . . an' then she wouldn 't need ta sleep."

Confronted and confounded by four year-old logic, Rogue propped herself up against a pillow and smiled at her son. Luc bounced to land next to her, then snuggled into the crook of her arm, resting his head against her abdomen. His grin became delighted as he felt the foetus kick against his cheek.

"Is dat Eye-rare-nuh?"

"Uh huh, that's Irene" she replied, gently correcting his pronunciation. Remy couldn't bear the thought of a child of his having a name that wasn't perfectly French so he added accents with the flair of a chef adding spice. 

"Eye-reenie," Luc repeated, as she slipped her other arm around his side to encircle him.

"So what is this miracle cure?" she grinned at her husband who was looking sheepish.

"Oops," her son's look reflected his father's, as he fished a decidedly battered bouquet from his capacious pockets. It had once been Baby's Breath and miniature roses, but now was of the species best described as potpourri. Luc's lip trembled. His perfect present had been ruined. Her heart went out to her poor, little boy as it always did.

"Darlin'," Rogue hugged him more tightly, dropping a kiss on the stripe in his fine hair, "This is th' best gift Ah could have evah asked foh. If yo' daddy'd bring me a vase, Ah'll put them in straight away . . . . Aftah that, we can carry on readin' 'bout Hercules."

He grinned at the prospect of his favorite book, "Do ya feel better, maman?"

"Ah do."

The odd thing was that, although the morning sickness and pains had not abated, she realised that she was telling the truth.


	6. The Cabbage Patch

The Eighth Color of the Rainbow 

The Cabbage Patch

Luc LeBeau pasted the final stamp on his "package", then stepped backwards to admire his handiwork. His sister, seemingly unfazed by the fact that she was plastered from bald head to tiny toe with stickers, stared up at him with the brilliantly green eyes of his mother and cooed and chuckled. He critically examined the child, especially proud about the final touch. Across her belly in his best hand-writing, more accustomed to scribing such pearls of wisdom as "Jane saw Spot" and "Run, Spot, Run", was the legend "The Cabbage Patch." 

"Ya be sure babies come from de cabbage patch?" he doubtfully asked the girl standing next to him, "Papa said dat **she** grew inside maman." 

Ainet, a plump girl with corn-row braids, rolled her eyes in a way that was the envy of all the mansion's children. She was in the process of eating her way through the contents of the household cookie jar, spreading crumbs over her red dress and the floor of the nursery, and her commentary was consequently slightly muffled by a blueberry whirl. 

"No f'nse, Luc, b' thhs j's r'd'c'lis..." she swallowed her mouthful, "What would Uncle Remy know 'bout it? I'm sure he wasn't there when you got her. Only moms are allowed to be there and mine says my brother came from the cabbage patch. After all, plants grow in the garden and not in people, don't they?" 

Convinced by the perfect logic of his playmate, Luc nodded. Her theory did not quite explain the change of shape his mother had undergone in the few months before Irene was born, nor the feel of a decided kick against his cheek when he had laid his head on her stomach, but he was sure there was a rational explanation for both of those. He would ask his mother when she was in a better mood, having been chased out of the kitchen for tracking mud over the newly-washed floor. It was unreasonable, Luc thought, to expect a normal, five year-old boy to keep clean the whole time when there were such interesting puddles to explore and insects to hunt in the garden. He had tried to explain that to her once, and had been no less firmly scrubbed for his troubles. Besides, she always was grumpy when his father went away for any length of time. 

"So, should we mail her?" his friend grinned, "I wish I could do this to the Brat." 

The boy had once had the more dignified name of David, which Stormy and Uncle Bishop and their friends still misguidedly used, but he had quickly been christened the Brat by his sister. The name fitted Irene better than David, Luc privately thought, but Ainet had laid claim to it first. Anyway, after today, the baby would hardly need a name, because he would return her to the cabbage patch from which she had come and stolen his parents. He scowled at the infant, hating her and the way she smiled gummily up at him. 

There was nothing remotely interesting about her. Her limited charms began and ended with noises and smells. On the contrary, he, Luc LeBeau, could walk from one side of the room to the other on his hands. He had shown his parents that particular trick a few nights ago, and they had barely even noticed him. However, when Irene had made a noise that sounded more like "wrwff" than anything intelligible or sensible, they had gone into raptures. That was when he had decided that he needed to rid himself of her, to break the spell she had over his parents. 

"Oui, A, let's go."

* * *

Knowing that she looked the part of the barefoot (which she was) and pregnant (which she was not and thank god for small mercies) wife and irritated by it, Rogue ferociously scrubbed the kitchen floor's tiles. They were spotless, had been so for some hours, but she was glad of the physical activity. If she stopped, she knew the thoughts and doubts that had gabbled and chattered in the darkness the previous night would return. Logically, she knew that Remy was possibly the best thief in the world and that the odds of anything going wrong with what was a simple pinch were so slim they made Callista Flockhart seem obese. Still, the niggling voice of fear that subsumed reason gleefully suggested a thousand, different scenarios. He could have tripped an alarm, could have been savaged by guard-dogs, could have lost his footing on the rooftop and slipped, could have been betrayed by the New Son, could have... 

Swearing in annoyance, she dropped her brush back into the bucket of dirty water and carried them to the door to empty over their garden. There was a thrifty streak in her that years of Remy's extravagance had not quite erased, and she remembered her own "mother" reusing water for the few marigolds that she was able to coax out of the dusty soil. Thanks to Storm's efforts, their garden was slightly more splendid than her childhood one had been, but the beauty was wasted on her at the moment. Each flash of pink seen out of the corners of her eyes made her think that her husband had returned. Each explosion of red made her stomach turn. Deliberately forcing the images out of her mind, she realised that both of her children had been remarkably quiet. 

"Luc? Where are you?" 

Silence. Suspicious silence, considering her son made more noise than she thought five year-old lungs could produce. Ainet had come over to play, and, by now, they would have usually been a steam-train, Superman and Poison Ivy, Two Ninja Kids or anything else that made an obscene racket. Was he sulking in his room? She felt a momentary stab of remorse at having yelled at him for walking mud all over the floor. Her nerves were on edge, but she had no call to take her own doubts and fears out on her little boy. 

"Luc? Luc?," she repeated as she climbed up the stairs, "Ah shoulda been ... Good gawd, Luc, what have you done ta yo' sistah?" 

A truculant expression on his face, her son was in the process of carrying a laughing Irene from the nursery. The baby was covered from top to toe in stickers and her stomach was covered in a black scrawl that seemed to read: "The kabij patch". His co-conspirator, Ainet, formed the end of the little retinue as she carried the girl's bottle and blanket. 

When she saw Rogue, she tried to smile ingenuously: "Just taking Reenie for a walk, Missus LeBeau." 

"Uh huh," it took all of her self-control to keep a straight face, "Ah think you should take a walk home, Ainet. Luc, yo' room."

* * *

With the bloodthirstiness of the average five year-old boy, Luc had once devoured a grim series of horror comics, belonging to Iceman. He had done so on the sly, slipping into Bobby's room and rummaging in one of the boxes in the corner. He had known his parents would not approve, had not when they had discovered his escapades, but the stories were so thrilling and so shivery that he had been addicted. Vampires, zombies, monsters, headless horsemen had all impressed themselves on his vivid imagination. 

One story, in particular, still figured in his nightmares. It told of a crazed count, who had the unfortunate habit of snatching naughty boys up in his burlap sack. There he would PUNISH them, depending on their crimes. THIEVES would have their fingers SNIPPED OFF with a pair of shears. LIARS or TATTLETALES would have their TONGUES removed. EAVESDROPPERS would have their EARS clipped. So the litany had continued, much to Luc's horrified fascination. Even though his mother had told him that the story was nonsense, that he should not worry about it, he still imagined that he could see a shadowy, insane figure, clutching scissors, whenever he did something wrong. It was his conscience after a fashion. 

Consequently, he sat on his bed, looking pensively at the frieze of Supermans on his wall and listening to the sounds of the baby being bathed. His mother was singing some wordless and tuneless song to Irene, barely audible over the splashes of water and the protests of his sister. She hated being cleaned almost as much as he did. By the Count's system of justice, in which he so firmly believed, he would be SENT BACK to the cabbage patch himself, even if he was no longer a baby. Besides, his parents had clearly shown that they loved Irene more and he was therefore redundant. A nuisance, who was only kept because they felt guilty or because no-one else would take him. Luc sniffed in the grasp of the misery that only the truly young could know, because it was not yet subject to reason. A fat tear rolled down his cheek, followed by a procession of the same. 

"Now that Reenie's asleep, Luc, what am Ah ta do with...?" his mother's voice shifted from stern to tender within seconds, "Sweetie, what's wrong?" 

"I don't want to go back t'de Cabbage Patch, momma," he gulped, as she slipped an arm around his shoulder. The wool of her sweater was scratchy against his cheek, but he burrowed his face into her side anyway. She was very soft and warm, and she smelt wonderfully of soap and powder. 

"Lawd above, Luc, who told you that rubbish?" she asked gently, but not without withering scorn. 

"Ainet said ... said dat all babies come from de cabbage patch. Dat mommas go dere and pick 'em like vegetables," he murmured, thinking there was nothing as comforting as a mother. He felt the muscles of her ribs twitch beneath his face, as if she were desperately trying to keep control of herself. 

"Don't Ah wish," she said wryly, then added in a more solemn tone of voice: "Sweetie, whatever Ororo might have told Ainet and however she might have got her daughter, Ah tend ta carry mah kids beneath mah heart. Ah carried you there for nine months, and ... you were so much a part o' me that Ah couldn't believe it when Cece handed me a tiny, pink bundle and said that this was you. Ah couldn't grasp that that tiny kick or those hiccups were a little boy, separate from me; that your daddy and Ah had made somethin' so ... perfect." 

Again, the fascinating mystery of how the baby had ended up in her stomach. He had repeatedly asked his father about it with the unsatisfying effect of Remy commenting either on how "wonderful de weather was and wouldn' ya like t'go play outside, mon cher ti-fils?" or on how "he was goin' t'de shops and would Luc like t'come wit' him?". His mother was equally bad when it came to satisfying Luc's curiosity. She laughed and said that his dad would explain it to him. Which led to more observations about the weather and shopping. 

Smugly, "I t'ought Ainet was wrong. So, ya aren't gonna put me back where ya got me?" 

Rogue laughed, "Absolutely not. Nine months is enough ta test th' patience of a saint -- Ah'm not carryin' any of my kids fo' any longer. Even if Ah do love them more than anything else." 

"So ya love me more dan Irene?" 

"Ah love you as much as Ah love her," she kissed the top of Luc's head, "Ah know we've been spendin' less time with you recently. It doesn't mean we don't love you. Babies just need a lot of attention and love. However, when your daddy gets back, Ah'm going t'talk ta him about us spendin' more time with you." 

"So, I'm not goin' t'be punished?" he asked hopefully. 

"Ah didn't say that," the corners of her lips were upturned, even if her tone of voice was strict, "Ah think you need t'do somethin' ta make it up ta yo' sister." 

Luc pouted. Of all the punishments his mother could have chosen, hand-chopping and ear-snipping included, having to pander to his baby sister was about the worst. He would probably have to fetch her diapers and bottle for a month, or (horror of horrors) amuse her when she refused to fall asleep. Visions of him having to hold puppet shows for Irene's exclusive benefit danced through his head, and collided with stubborn refusals to do so. 

"Like?" 

"Well," his mother sounded thoughtful, "You do know Reenie has never been to th' zoo? Ah was thinking of taking her this afternoon. Her big brother would, of course, have to show her around and point out the animals to her. Also, Ah'm pretty sure she's never had any icecream. However, it's bad fo' babies, so her big brother would have ta eat most of it fo' her. Ah think that'd be a start, don't you?" 

Grinning broadly at the thought of the zoo's excellent cones, "Oui, maman, but ... I t'ink she'd also like t' see Pokemon 2 an' get some comics an' go t'de arcade an' have a Superman suit an'..." 


	7. Happy Anniversary! (**NEW PART**)

"Ah think we're actually goin' t'make an anniversary dinner," ****

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!

"Pervert," Remy LeBeau shot at Rogue Darkholme. Long legs dangling beneath her, she was sitting on the dressing table and watching him get dressed. Even though she vowed and declared to herself that she was only waiting for him because he was so slow, she had to admit that it was not an unpleasant way to pass the time. Most women would have paid good money and a lot of it to be able to watch her husband dress (or undress, but that was a matter for later in the evening). Heck, even she might have given a few dollars for the privilege, especially if he would have delayed putting his shirt on for a few more hours. Remy had a very nice chest. Not that she would ever have confessed that to him. . . . 

"You wish, sugah. Ah've seen it all before, an' it ain't that great." 

"Really?" he said with an amused note in his voice, as he crossed the room to stand over her, "I guess dat explains why ya're drooling all over ya Donna Karan."

Smiling up at him, she slid her arms around his neck before murmuring in her most seductive tones, "You don't need to worry about a shirt, you know. Ah'd be happy to miss dinner and go straight to th' evening's . . . uh . . . entertainment."

With a regretful expression, "Much as I hate t'disappoint m'petite pervert, we have t'go t'dinner tonight, if only t'break our anniversary curse." 

Pulling a face, Rogue kissed him then let him finish dressing. He was right. They had to break the streak of bad luck that had started on their very first anniversary, when they had booked reservations at the Ciel des Etoiles - five stars in the Michelin guide and white tie only - months in advance, only to arrive at its blackened shell on the night. The pommes frites - french fries in a one star, blue collar restaurant - had set the place on the fire the previous evening. They had spent the remainder of the evening being shunted from one fully booked restaurant to another, until they had ended up celebrating their first year of marriage over McChicken McBurgers and McVanilla McShakes. 

It had taken a second, equally disastrous anniversary to convince them it was more like a curse than a stroke of bad luck. Having wised up to the wisdom of depending on restaurants, they had decided to have a picnic in the mansion grounds. At first, everything had been perfect. Remy had used every pot in the house in his pursuit of the ideal lobster bisque. She had trawled every bottle store in the city in her pursuit of the expensive champagne she knew he loved. They had scattered candles all over the lawn, so, even if the stars were covered by clouds, they had a constellation of their own on the earth. She had just thought it was a wonderful evening, when she realised that all the ants in Westchester agreed with her and were prepared to go to war over the eclairs. After an hour of slapping the creatures off her legs and trying to look suitably seductive while doing so, Rogue thought it could not get any worse, at which point it began to pour. The rest of the night was spent wrapped in a thick blanket and eating take-away pizza.

When Luc was born the next year, he added a whole new dimension to their anniversary disasters. They had known they would be unable to go out for their third anniversary with him being so young, and had resolved to have a simple dinner at home. Remy had prepared pasta puttanesca, she had set the table with flowers and candles, and, as they had sat down to supper, they thought they might have escaped the anniversary curse that year. However, Luc had chosen that time to make his presence known with an ear-splitting howl. He had had no reason to cry, other than sheer contrariness. He had been not hungry. He had not been wet. He had not even been tired. The remainder of their anniversary had been spent gulping down a few mouthfuls of food in between trying to put him back to bed. 

The fourth, catastrophic anniversary was not his fault, however. They had just dropped him off with Jubilee who had promised to take care of him, when Logan had come barrelling down the stairs and had yelled that the Dark Riders were attacking downtown New York. The night had been spent in pitched battle, transporting people to safety and taking down the enemy with minimum fuss or damage. By the time the Riders were in police custody, she and her husband had been too tired to do anything more than collapse on the downstairs sofa and sleep. The fifth was similar, although it was Magneto rather than the Dark Riders and the hall floor rather than the sofa. 

Still, this year was going to be different. They had planned for every eventuality. They had phoned the restaurant to make sure it had not burned down overnight. They had dropped Luc off at Storm's home to spend the night with Ainet. They had checked police reports and news channels to make sure the world was not self-destructing around them. They would have a proper anniversary yet, come hell or high water, which they probably would! 

"Yeah, Ah think number six is gonna be the lucky one," Rogue said wryly, knocking on the table on which she was sitting, "Touch wood." 

"Oui, I can't see anyt'ing goin' wrong now," he said blithely, straightening his collar then picking up his car keys and jingling them, "Do ya wanna drive or should I, cherie?" 

"Much as Ah hate ta say this, you'd better," she replied with an exaggerated sigh, stretching out a leg to reveal a strappy, roman sandal, "These shoes weren't made for drivin'."

He chuckled, "I see m'prayers t'de patron saint o' sexy shoes have been payin' off. We might actually arrive at de restaurant in one piece, t'anks t'dem."

"Yeah, we might get there safely but we'll also be five hours too late t'make our reservation," she shot back, "You drive like an old woman, LeBeau."

He opened his mouth, but the strident ring of the telephone cut off any answer he might have made. Rogue felt her heart sink into her strappy sandals. Knowing the jinx on their anniversary, it was probably not a salesperson wanting to know if they were happy with their long distance carrier. She mouthed at him to leave it alone or she would personally remove his spleen with a butter knife. Her husband grimaced apologetically at her as he picked up the receiver.

"Hello. Darkholme-LeBeau residence. Remy speakin'." There was a long pause before he spoke again: "Oui, I understand, Stormy. I'll be right over t'pick him up. I'm sorry f'r de trouble. . . . Bye."

"What form has the anniversary curse taken this year?" Rogue said lightly, trying to hide the disappointment in her voice. 

"Our beloved son - an' I stress de beloved - has just thrown up in Ororo's backyard an' is now complainin' dat he feels sick. So, it appears dat we'll be spendin' our anniversary lookin' after a pukey, four year-old," Remy sounded worried, despite the casual words. He was overprotective of Luc in the extreme, treating every scrape as if it needed major surgery and every cold as if it could become pneumonia at any moment. By the end of the night, what sounded to be a tummy bug would have become food poisoning or even gastro-enteritis in Remy's eyes, and their son would be rushed off to Beast for treatment at around about midnight. And, impossible as it seemed, he had mellowed in the years since Luc had been a baby. 

"Mah, it just seems like they get more an' more romantic by the year," she sighed, "While you go fetch him, Ah'll run a bath and turn down his bed."

"I'll be back in a bit," Remy paused at the doorway, a faint smile on his lips, "Oh, in case I don' get a chance t'say it later tonight, happy anniversary, Madame LeBeau." 

Arching an eyebrow ironically, "Yeah, happy anniversary, Mistuh Darkholme." 

*

END

*

blows on 'fic and it floats away As suspected, it's fluff! Characters are Marvel's, except for Luc who belongs to Rogue and Gambit. Do you wish to get into an argument with them over him? If so, I hope you have good, medical insurance. Comments to brucepat@iafrica.com or to hopes_angel2@hotmail.com if the former is not working. 


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